The Husband was gone for a few days last week and every time he goes, Cali gets all squirrely and tempermental.  So on Thursday morning, she informed me she was leaving home to find a new house and a new Mommy and Daddy.  She packed her rolling suitcase with a bottle of water, two pairs of shoes, my earplugs and grocery list, a couple of Little People and some weird pillow thing.  As she headed down the drive-way, dragging her ecclectic blend of prized possessions behind her, she looked over her shoulder and informed me:

“I’m headed outta this town like sputter sputter sput.”

(She got that from the book, Sputter, Sputter, Sput! by Bob Staake.)

But really.  How you can you take someone seriously when THIS is how they pose for pictures on a regular basis?

Anyway…on a completely different and irrelevant note, I began the 14 day Activia challenge yesterday!  They’ve got their work cut out for them considering my digestive track has been hosed since birth.  I fully expect a refund in two weeks.  How do they verify their products’ ineffectiveness?  By the amount of toilet paper that has or hasn’t been used?  I’m just saying….something to think about.  Anyway, I’m always up for a challenge…especially when the challenge spotlights my colon.

About a month or so ago, Mental Health America contacted me about doing an interview with iVillage’s ‘Your Total Health’ about my life experiences with Bipolar.  {To read the full article, click between the parenthesis.  (Article)} Of course, I said “YES!” right away.  Thankfully the writer contacted me immediately and we did the interview shortly thereafter;  otherwise, I may have just chickened out and sent an email stating, “Uh, I forget everything.”

I think it must be terrifying for anyone putting their “junk” out there for the whole world to see.  I certainly don’t do it for the ridicule!  I did it because I’m convinced that I’m not the only mother out there who is living clean with a dirty past…and it’s not exactly something you bring up while hanging out with other Mommies.  Like I mentioned in the iVillage article, signing over your parental rights is the unforgivable and ultimate maternal sin.   People don’t see the circumstances behind these decisions, yet they feel it’s their moral obligation to point a finger of condemnation.   Society turns their back on us, deeming our behavior despicable and unfathomable.  With a few pen strokes, we are immediately marked with a stain of ”Less Than”.  So we put our dignity six feet under and replace it with shame. 

My argument isn’t one of, “Let the kids stay with the crazy, irresponsible mom, no matter what!  How dare you steal those babies?!”  That’s not it at all.  In my case, it was definately in the best interest of my children to be under the wing of a more responsible human being.  I saw that.  As gut-wrenching as it was, I saw it. 

Motherhood is a challenge, I don’t care who you are.  Mothers living with Bipolar have an even bigger challenge with little to no support from their community and peers.  Educational materials are scarce and hiding under a bush somewhere because no one seems to know where to find them.  Support groups specifically designed for teaching life skills to Bipolar mothers are virtually non-existent.   

I think fear and ignorance are the driving forces behind stigma.  By “ignorance”, I mean being uneducated about mental illness.  It’s easier to “not talk about it”.  Have we not progressed in 100 years?  A member of our family is diagnosed with a mental illness….worse yet, the illness is ignored and never diagnosed…and we go to great lenghts to hide it from public scrutiny, often denying its very existence?  Fear itself is a mental affliction.  Something we are born without and acquire as we grow.  That being the case, aren’t we all afflicted then?

We fear the unknown.  When we pull fear out of the shadows and shine a flashlight in its face, it becomes less scary.   The stigmatized fear and judgement surrounding mothers living with Bipolar needs to be addressed with public and consumer education.  I feel it’s my personal obligation to help another Bipolar mother up off the ground…whether it’s with a kind word, my personal story or sharing some “survival” tips that could make life a little easier….that’s what I feel compelled to do. 

No longer do I hang my head in shame, deeming myself unworthy and defective.  I’m proud of who I am…of the MOTHER I’ve become.  I choose to live my life wide open, flaws and all…a testement to overcoming adversity.   I choose this for one reason and one reason alone.  To support mothers like myself and continue fighting for better education, competant health care and a strong community support system designed to give parental support and guidance.

Yeah, I know….a jacked up combo to be sure.  But I didn’t want to do separate posts.  So, here’s Cali’s new tutu and ballet bag.  Unless you know Cali, you won’t find this tutu and bag at all funny….the sparkles…the pink.  If Cali had her way, she’d be playing NFL football with pink polish, blush, some sparkles and thangs…and taking great pride in clothes-lining the quarterback.    Maybe it’s because we never pushed her one way or the other.  We just let her take the lead.  Now she’s a 4 year old comedian who is already showing signs of superb athletic, art and musical talent.

Speaking of music…my all-time fave singer in the whole wide of the world is Annie Lennox.  While I’m working, I’m usually playing her “Songs of Mass Destruction” CD….and Cali has learned every song, word for word…and here’s the kicker.  The kid stays in tune with Annie’s pipes.  I can’t even do that…and I spent the majority of my youth focused on singing and piano.  She’s got vibrato and everything!  But there’s one song in particular that she plays over and over…”Smithereens”.  Which happens to be a very special song to me for a whole lot of reasons.

Now enough of the sentiment! Here’s the tutu and bag.

…and we’re walking…we’re walking. The grown-up stuff! This letter here was sent to me with a little note that said this: “This made me think of you.” So here’s to the ladies:

This is an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to
American company Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products.
She really gets rolling after the first paragraph. It’s PC Magazine’s 2007 editors’
choice for best webmail-award-winning letter.

Dear Mr… Thatcher, 

 I have been a loyal user of your ‘Always’ maxi pads forover 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I’d probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I’d certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite
 feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the
 only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can’t tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there’s a little F-16 in my pants.

 Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? I’m guessing you haven’t. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I’ll be transformed into what my husband likes to call ‘an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.’ Isn’t the human body amazing? 

 As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you’ve no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customer’s monthly visits from ‘Aunt Flo’. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it’s a tough time for most women. 

 The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants…
 Which brings me to the reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: ‘Have a Happy Period.’

 Are you f—–g kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness – actual smiling, laughing happiness, is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you’re some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never be anything ‘happy’ about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don’t march down to the local Walgreen’s armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. 

 For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn’t it make more sense to say something that’s actually pertinent, like ‘Put down the Hammer’ or ‘Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong’.

 Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that’s a promise I will keep.

  Cindy

It’s been a rough week here in Toddler-Land.  She’s itching to be back in school and I’m itching right along with her.   I’m just gonna admit something right here and now…and I don’t care who nit-picks it apart.  I’m clueless as a parent.  Seriously.  I think they should have parenting workshops on tropical islands with Mai Tais and Daquiris.  The “Parenting” websites out there (with the exception of a rare few..i.e. “The Meanest Mom“) serve as cheap entertainment for me.  Who ARE these women?!  I’m speaking of those who say stuff like: (I’m roughly paraphrasing here)

*  “You know, my three year doesn’t pour laundry detergent all over MY carpet and stuff cats in the dryer.  You might want to have her evaluated by a good, God-fearin’ physician and have the demons taken up out of her.  Eating a balanced breakfast may also be a good idea.”

No wait!  What about those Moms who have taken up residence in their SUV’s, bound and determined to give their child every advantage they never had growing up?   “My children are my world.  I live for my children.”   Translation: “I could care less about my husband OR his needs because all that matters is getting these kids to ballet, soccer, karate, gourmet cooking for toddlers, Kiddie Yoga, Muffins & Mommy and church every time the doors are unlocked…AND I can do without wrinkling my khakis and Talbot’s sweater. I’m sorry, were you saying something?”  (NOTE:  This characterization excludes those Moms who are in no way offended by these characterizations.)

My whole point is this: No Mom is perfect.  I’m so far from perfect that I’d need a pigmy guide, three calibrated compasses and a leer jet to get there.  And I’m through apologizing and brow-beating myself because of these imperfections.  THROUGH I tell you!  I flushed idealism down the toilet this morning with a half roll of toilet paper my kid had shoved in there at some point during the night.

Somewhere in the middle of all her shenanigins, Cali “wrote” a couple of stories yesterday. She dictated and I wrote (I’m sensing a dictatorship on the horizon).  The illustrations were a team effort.  The anal retentive Grammar Marm in me wanted to point out that Princesses were girls and Princes were boys, but I let it go. 

No plot here.  Just Cali, “Other Cali” (the unseen) and a wise old owl pointing out that pink hair is so cool it oughtta be illegal.  And the Moon.  Can’t forget the Moon.  I happened to forget and was reprimanded for my complete lack of good sense:

The first in a series of Preskool ramblings:  “The Mysturious Mermaid” (Typo intended)

“Once upon a time there was a mysturious mermaid who came out the water to see Mr. Crab.  And Crab say “Hi Mr. Mermaid, how are you today?”  Another princess was in the water seeing the mermaid.  And another girl said “Hey!”  And another girl went after the Crab but the other girls didn’t like crabs.  And the mermaid always sat down to rest with her Mommy & Daddy.  The End.”

Novelette #2: “The Mysturious Chicken Salad of the Day”

“Once upon a little time, a mysturious Prince came out of the castle and writed and writed and grew her garden with water and played music outside with her Daddy, making chicken salad and hot dogs for supper on the cook the grill.  And she goed to sleep.  The End.”

In a desperate attempt to keep my sanity in tact, I baked miature apple pies and took them to my neighbors. 

THE END.

That’s right.  I start my morning with a cup of coffee and email.  Cal starts hers with red juice (that cherry orange Sunny D stuff…she’s an addict.), raw onions or cinnamon toast (depends on the mood. And I’m not kidding about the onions) and Disney Playhouse games.  What.  She gonna have her own email addy by this time next year?

This morning on CNN I saw some kind of texting tournament.  Some 15 year old girl won.  Track these kids down in 20 years.  They’ll be racked with arthritis and gimpy thumbs.  I used to pride myself on staying on top of all things technical.  Now?  Not so much.  A have a cell phone.  A plain ole cell phone.  No bells and whistles.  It takes crappy pictures and it rings.  That’s about it.  But you know what?  I’ve never had a problem with it.  Those other tweaked out contraptions are constantly glitching out, dropping stuff and stoving up. 

I already know that one day in the not-so-distant future, my kid is going to look me in the face and say: “Mom.  Even though you have tatoos and a nose ring does NOT make you cool.  You don’t even have an iPhone or Blackberry.  You can’t speak in CSS code and you couldn’t correct an HTML error if your life depended on it.  Can you drop me off at my Kindergarten now, please?”

Whatever, man.  I watched MTV come on the air for the first time ever.  I could, right now this very minute, kick your butt all over this house if you brought Pong or Asteroids up in here.  I remember when floppy disks were floppy.  You will NEVER be able to kick it in leg-warmers the way I did and for the record, those white framed sunglasses?  SO 1982. *yawn* Could your generation puh-lease try to be ORIGINAL? 

Here’s what “Cool” is.  Cool is a self-assured kid who makes no apologies for who he is…even if that puts him on the perimeter of his peers.  It’s that person you look at and say to yourself, “I wish I had the balls to do that” or “What a unique human being.”  You don’t have to draw, paint, be a musician, genius or athlete.  Treat yourself and others with the utmost respect, no matter what their inclinations are toward you.  Don’t you DARE have an air of entitlement and be accepting of every race, religion and economic standing.  Don’t be petty and go out of your way to tear others down. 

So, kid.  You can have all your techno stuff, the cool clothes, the right hair…just don’t let it define you.  And don’t EVER let the opinions of others prevent you from expressing yourself completely.  (..and I’m talking to myself here too.)

I came across this declaration over at Jane’s Apron and decided to adopt it for myself. 

I put in a fair amount of effort to make sure I’m not a Mommy Gnat (always hovering).  But sometimes when the Goody’s headache powder hasn’t kicked in and the child is whining, “Mommeeee…go get my potty and bring it right here so I can pee and play my video games all at the same time”, I waffle.  I cave in.  I go there.  I stoop to the level of Parent Slave and the child learns NOTHING! except how to be a little Napoleon Bonaparte when she grows up.

So today, Miss Cali, I vow to instill a strong sense of independence and self-reliance in you that will ensure your success on the outside:

*  I will no longer fetch you popsicles while you watch Spongebob and try on jewelry.  Get down off your stool and get one yourself.  Because unless you marry a complete and total pantywaist, noone will afford you this service.

*  I will encourage you to go TO the potty instead of the potty coming to YOU.

*  I will forcefully demand encourage you to pick up your own mess of crayons, sticky notes and pipecleaners because being a slob is just NOT cool.  Unless you’re a slob.  Please don’t be a slob. 

*  I will lovingly guide you to adopt the genteel manners of “Yes ma’am” and “Yes sir” in leui of “What?  Huh?  What you say?”  If I’ve failed to instill these qualities by the time you reach the age of seven, you will promptly be taken to Cotillion.  I’m not asking for a Debutante…just a civilized human being.

*  I will no longer pull your finger out of your nose while in public to avoid the embarrassment.  No.  I will let you dig away, dine upon your findings and walk away like you belong to someone else.   Picking your nose will eventually lead to you eating your own face.  Your Father and I saw a man eat his own face in Moline, Illinois and neither one of us have fully recovered from that experience.  Don’t be that guy.

*  I will attempt to show you that being naked 24/7 has its drawbacks and will result in public scrutiny.  Haven’t figured out how I’m gonna do this yet..but I’m working on it. 

* You must learn that it is not apropriate or socially acceptable to rip up other little girl’s hair-bows…even if feels like a party when you’re doing it.  You will have to do odd jobs around the house to earn the money that’s needed to replace these hair-bows.  You can be a tom-boy and I won’t push the hair accessories thing…but you can’t push your convictions onto others by the use of destruction and anihilation.  Otherwise, your Mommy is going to have to drop you off at school incognito to avoid having the brakes beaten off her.  Do you want that?  Do you really want your Mommy to get beat up?  Because it’ll happen if this nonsense keeps up. 

I’m gonna put forth the effort kid.  Work with me, alright?

I’m trying to think of a name for my “Creating Room”.  Haven’t come up with one yet.  One that I keep coming back to is “The Birdcage”.  Yeah, it’s a movie title, but who even cares.  Truth of the matter is, I’ve inadvertently accumulated numerous birdcages.  I didn’t set out to collect them…..I guess they followed me home.  OH hark.  That’s it!  I’ve decided my room is now officially “The Birdcage”.  So from here onward and overboard, when I make comments like, “I’m heading into the birdcage”….or “I was sitting in the birdcage the other day….”….don’t make rash judgements and call the goons in white jackets. 

So in honor of my newly appointed “Birdcage”, I’ve begun painting a boring old particle board cabinet like…what?!  A birdcage.  I realize all of this is out of chronological order and confusing to those with rigid, one-track minds.  But it makes perfect sense to me. 

Here’s what we started with:

This is what I have now.  Kinda looks like Cinderella’s pumpkin ride..but it’s supposed to be a birdcage…that opens.  Nowhere near finished:

Cali got nekkid and made cupcakes and had a tea-party with her plastic and furry friends a couple of days ago.  Eventually we’re going to have to tell her, “No, Cal-Belle….you canNOT go into the library in nothin’ but your draws…I don’t care if your Daddy goes outside in his boxers…YOU are putting some clothes on.”

Then she made “soup”.  Vile soup:

Captured this little gem of a photo after she went haulin’ down the alley dressed like this, with THAT banana, holding a trashcan and wooden spoon, hollerin’ about “Soup!!!”

One of her fave things is working in the yard with her Daddy.  He was trimming bushes…so what’d she do?  Trimmed some bushes.  With my scrapbook scissors:

…wonderin’ why I snatched them out her hands:

Anyway, that’s about it for now.  Gotta run..the kid is in school today and my painting time is grossly limited.

I think I heard something yesterday about Facebook lifting the cap on the amount of friends you can have. Now you can add MORE than 5,000 people to your quasi-friends list! How ’bout that?! Titillating, eh? Mm. Not so much. Not for me, anyway.

I happen to know each and every one of my ‘Friends’ personally. I have recently become aware that actually KNOWING the person is in no way, shape or form cool. I’m seriously debating whether or not I should conduct a little look-see test. Just start adding random people…like 200 every day. We’ll see. I haven’t decided yet.

In my ever so humble opinion, I think these networking sites like Facebook, MySpace, Xanga….they’ve all diminished the true meaning of friendship. Ask someone my age what a friend is and you’ll get an answer like, “A friend is someone who may often demonstrate reciprocating and reflective behaviors.” Ask one of our 15 year old kids what their definition is, and you’ll get something like THIS: ‘Anyone who is on my list.”

What do you expect, really? You’ve got Paris out there BFF-ing, dropping her BFF, having a TV show trying to find a new BFF, fighting with the new BFF and dropping her like a habit for her original BFF. Whatever, man. I shudder to think what it’s gonna be like in ten years. As I sit here writing this blog, my three year old daughter is right beside me on another laptop playing a video game that I STILL can’t figure out. She has her own kiddie-iPod. It’s almost as if these kids are born with an invisible techno-chip implant, giving them the ability to master all things electronic.

By this time next year, I’ll probably have to send her an IM to tell her it’s time for supper. Times…they’ve done changed.